


All I Ask of You

by sullenSniper



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBW, Backstory, Big Beautiful Woman, Dating, Delusions, Ecchi, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Dates, Genderbending, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, Large Breasts, Lingerie, Other, Rare Pairings, Rule 63, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-07-13 21:25:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16026272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullenSniper/pseuds/sullenSniper
Summary: Erik, known famously as Phantom of the Opera, was in reality a lonely woman who, as per legend, was shunned by society for her appearance and eventually immortalized as a tragic monster.So how did someone of her notoriety manage to catch the attention of a handsome man known for his heroic feats?





	1. The First Date

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all, and welcome!
> 
> This work you're about to read started life as a series of, ah, rather self-indulgent fantasies, to put it politely. While said fantasies were merely shallow fluff meant to capitalize on my (hardly-secret) affinity for massive assets, this drabble came about as a means of elaborating on the concept of a female Phantom in general, all framed around the simple narrative of a (presumed) first date. It's cheesy, it's shameless, and not very deep, but I hope you enjoy it for the fluff that it is.
> 
> Whether I'll continue this or not is up to fate (pun intended), but for now, I'll leave it open so that I can continue it if I so choose.

She stepped out of the room, adorned in a form-fitting dress and opera gloves, in harmony with her dark, chin-length hair. Rested upon her bountiful breasts was a ruby gem, strung to an elaborate chain of gold. The ensemble, for all its minimalist detail, only served to accentuate her beauty, which unsettled her.

“I do not deserve all this,” she told him.

Before her was a handsome man, lean and fair. His blond hair tied back with a blue ribbon, he was more restrained in comparison to the carefree fighter she knew. Donned in a suit of white, he was a true knight in formal gown.

“On the contrary,” he said as he grasped her hand, “you deserve every last bit of it.” He leaned over to kiss her fingertips, further flustering her. “Come now, Erik, let us go.”

Erik—a name which gave her both joy and sorrow. It was a name given—or found—in a past life, when she disguised herself and hid in shadows, and one which she accepted to live by. “Erik” was her facade and the only name she knew. Without it, she was but a shadow, a phantom.

Growing up, she was told that without a beautiful face, she was nothing of worth. Cursed with a half-scarred face at birth, she ran away from a family that never loved her, and as she aged, so she learned of her many talents. Contrary to common knowledge, she did travel outside of the aqueducts in the French opera house, though she was often reminded of the world's harsh reality. It was in Persia specifically where she honed a new talent: assassination. Through use of this talent, among other details, she was etched into the Throne of Heroes as an Assassin, under her most famous moniker, “Phantom of the Opera”.

So why would a being associated with tragedy and monstrosity be deserving of a man so chivalrous and heroic? That is a question she asked herself as they trekked to their destination.

 

The theater was modest in design compared to the elaborate opera house she was familiar with, but no less spectacular. Modern technology in the hands of an excellent crew had resulted in special effects and stage design that was unthinkable for theatrical visionaries of her time. Even the most classical of tales was given new life, new emotion. By the final curtain call, Erik was applauding with the crowd, face streaming with tears of joy.

Soon after they left the theater, they arrived at a classy restaurant, a suggestion so cliché yet so pleasant. Her date ordered a grilled salmon—his personal favorite—while she asked for a filet mignon, medium rare, both accompanied by tall glasses of wine. In the middle of their meal, Fionn cut up a small piece of his salmon and held it by fork in front of Erik, who devoured it with glee. So caught up in their lovestruck action was she unaware of the glances made in her direction until seconds later. At unease, she bowed her head, embarrassed. “Fionn, I wish to go now.”

They left not long after.

 

In an attempt to soothe her nerves, Fionn took Erik for a walk in a park by a lake, accompanied only by the streetlamps lighting their path. They find a bench to sit down and watch the gentle water. Beneath the cool glimmer of moonlight, her pale countenance lent on an eerily seductive appearance, the profile of true gothic beauty. Taking in the crisp air, she started to hum a calming melody, which then became a full dance with song. Separated from the judgmental watch of onlookers, she wandered off into her own world.

Captivated, the Irish gentleman approached her, holding out his hand. “Shall I have this dance?” Erik was taken aback initially, but observing the sincerity in his blue eyes, she conceded. Immediately, they were lost in ecstasy, waltzing beneath the full moon.

As soon as the energy of the moment subsided, a tear fell down her cheek, which Fionn wiped away. “Erik, tell me what's on your mind,” he whispered, his soft voice soothing to her sensitive ears.

“I was reminded of a memory… No, a mere dream. A dream of a dance I never experienced.”

As her story went, she lived a lonely life beneath the opera house. Then she met Christine. Christine Daae, naive and a bit too inquisitive, was guided under the belief that an “Angel of Music” would bless her with stardom. Erik, captivated by this young diva-to-be, took on the facade of this “Angel of Music” as a means of gaining her attention. However, she soon craved physical affection, but fearing rejection should her birth sex be discovered, she took on a masculine guise and name.

She recalled an image from a dream she once had, resembling the moment that just passed. Donned in extravagant dress, dancing with Christine under moonlight. Her blood red eyes staring down at Fionn, the line between reality and fantasy blurring. “Christine… My Christine…” Pressing his face against her massive bosom, she sang softly in a deep, syrupy contralto.

“Erik,” Fionn tried to call out, his voice muffled. “I… can't… breathe…!”

Snapping out of her delusion, her grip loosens, freeing him. “Sorry.”

“It's fine. You're smiling now, that's all that matters.” Face flushed red, he lets out a laugh. “I guess we both got a bit carried away, didn't we?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Her voice trailed off as her earlier question arose to the surface. “Though I have to ask: why me? Of all the women in Chaldea, why did you pick me? In a field of flowers, I am but a weed. A hideous, worthless weed.”

“Well, I can think of at least two reasons.” He could almost feel the dagger-like glare coming from her direction. “Jokes aside, you are beautiful in so many ways. Your graceful step, your soothing voice, your loyalty, your wit, your laugh. There's not a thing that I haven't grown to love about you! Well, there's maybe one small thing, but—”

A frenetic tone in her voice, she cuts in with, “What is it? Tell me!”

“It's… well… Sometimes you get a bit lost in your own world. It becomes a bit hard to tell what you're thinking. But I consider it part of your charm, so it's not anything I cannot cope with.”

“I see… In that case…” It was then she realized something. Since they first met, through the time they shared, the battles they fought alongside each other, her attachment to her memories of Christine had gradually faded, becoming less of an intrusion upon her reality. It was a bittersweet notion, having her perception of the world dissipate little by little. “Say you'll share with me, one love, one lifetime.” Erik felt her cheeks turn warm, a sense of familiarity in her words as she spoke in a manner more akin to song. “Say the word, and I will follow you. Share each day with me, each night, each morning. Promise me that all you say is true.”

She embraced him once more, with greater force as her sharpened nails dug into Fionn's flesh, and whispered, “Love me. That's all I ask of you.”


	2. Loosening Up

It started with an explosion.

Sanson, followed closely behind by Jekyll, rushed in the direction from where they heard the booming sound. The entrance to one of the lab rooms had already been blown off, and from within the room, a heavy cloud of smoke wafted out. Adrenaline rising, they pushed through the smoke into the room, scrambling to find the culprit. "Dammit, Hohenheim", Sanson muttered under his breath, punctuated by a cough.

Jekyll, groping around, made contact with something soft.  _A homunculus...?_  Meanwhile, Sanson found a nearby fan and turned it on. As the smoke cleared, both men were in shock at the soft mass in Jekyll's grasp.

A pair of gigantic, pillow-like mounds, attached to a plump woman bearing Paracelsus' likeness. Jekyll, face red, jumped back. The woman, however, seemed more curious than offended. Stumbling to her feet—"This body's going to take some getting used to," she said to herself—she examined herself, poking and groping every last supple curve. "No adverse side effects so far. Though the redistributed mass appears to have increased somehow. Excess mana, perhaps? I'll look more into it later. For now, I shall consider this experiment a success."

"Experiment...?" The word trailed off Sanson's lips. "Hohenheim, what were you thinking?"

"Well, I got curious about what sorts of alterations one could make to a Saint Graph, so I decided to perform a few experiments. I started with duplicate Graphs that I found lying about, but once those ran out, I had no other options but to use myself." Paracelsus approached Sanson, his—er, her chest pressed against his as she gently caressed his jawline. "That agility stat means nothing to me, especially not with two strong boys to carry me."

Less than impressed, Sanson pushed her away and starts leaving. "Carry yourself. You cause enough trouble for us already."

Jekyll, reluctant to leave a defenseless lady unattended (even if said lady was until recently a man), offered to walk her to wherever she needed to. "I need a new wardrobe, to start," said Paracelsus. "I'm thankful that my usual outfit adjusted with the rest of my Saint Graph, but casual and formal wear is another story."

"I suppose we can ask around..." Jekyll's words trailed off as, from the corner of his eye, someone passed by.

Dressed in a tight-fitting blouse accentuating her voluptuous form, Erik's presence caused the two to stare, mouths agape. "Um, why are you staring like that...?" Her red eyes turn downward to the stouter woman, and they widened in surprise.

After the whole story was explained, Paracelsus capped it off with, "So I was wondering if we can go clothes shopping together. Call it a ladies' day out, if you will."

Fidgeting with the strained buttons on her top, Erik responded, "I could afford a new shirt or two. And Fionn has been telling me to 'loosen up' a bit. But P... aren't you technically a man?"

"D-don't think about it too much! Just treat me as a lady and all is well."

Just at that moment, two buttons from Erik's blouse popped off, exposing a window of cleavage. "I guess that's one way to 'loosen up'," Jekyll commented with a meek laugh.

One change of garments later, and they're off. With some help, they found a clothing store with outfits catering to their above-average assets. Garments were tried and tossed, and tastes complimented and questioned, until eventually, they walked out lugging large bags of even larger clothing.

  
Later that evening, after a long day of hunting, Fionn returned to his chambers, and stumbled upon a heart-stopping sight. Sitting on his bed was Erik, clad in a sheer white nightgown that barely reached her knees, exposing black lacy lingerie beneath. As soon as they locked eyes, she stood up, a pep to her step as she showed off her new ensemble. "I tried to follow your suggestion and looked for more casual dress. Do you like it?"

Fionn opened his mouth to respond, yet words escaped him. "When I said to 'loosen up'," he said with a stammer seconds later, "this wasn't quite what I had in mind." He walked over and embraced her. "But it looks amazing. You look elegant in everything you wear."

He gave her a peck on the lips, then proceeded to strip himself of his light armor, down to his undergarments. She instinctively averted her gaze throughout the process, her heart incapable of handling the stress of witnessing his lean, muscled build in a state verging on nudity. Once the initial shock wore off, she turned to caress him. They lost themselves in a moment of passion, ending with the two in a loving embrace, warm skin pressed together as they fell into slumber.

  
Elsewhere, a stranger scene was occurring.

"Hohenheim, now is not the time for this," said an unamused Sanson to a scantily clad Paracelsus. "We have to figure out how to turn you back to normal before everyone else finds out."

"Aw, but I was having fun! And don't tell me you weren't enjoying these in the slightest." As she spoke, she lifted up her breasts, accentuating their immense size and cleavage.

Sanson blushed and turned away. "Don't change the topic! Erik might have been fine with your explanation, but what about Mephisto or-"

"What about me?" Sanson turned his gaze behind him, and jumped back at the sight of a grinning, clown-like face. "Oh, Mama, I got you those teardrops you wanted. Aren't you proud of me?"

"Of course I am, Mephy. Now run along now. Mama's got work to do."

Sanson stared at Mephistopheles skipping out like an energetic child, uttering, "Did he just call you 'Mama'?" The alchemist merely replied with an innocence-feigning smile.


	3. Gifts from the Heart

While the rest of Chaldea was abuzz with activity, with all the ladies preparing Valentine's Day chocolates for their beloved and the men scrambling to find the perfect gift, Paracelsus hid away from the chaos, peacefully tending to her experiments. "Is it possible to create the perfect love potion, one which will allow a person to find and attract their soulmate, one that can create a mutually beneficial romance that surpasses mere physical desire, or am I attempting the impossible?" That was her current ambition, one that she found herself lost in until the sound of the door cut her off.

"Dr. Hohenheim, you have to help me!" Paracelsus was suddenly spun around by a pair of hands, and was now locking eyes with a green-haired figure of unearthly beauty. The figure's face, however, was contorted with panic. "I bumped into the King of Heroes earlier, but he looked different. He was shorter and fatter and… a lot like you, actually."

_Wow, okay, rude much_ , Paracelsus wanted to say, but refrained. "Enkidu, calm yourself, please. It's a bit hard to understand you in such a state."

"Of course. My apologies." They went on to elaborate their earlier tale, where upon learning from rumor of their former partner's summoning, they ran straight to meet them, only to be met with shock. Instead of the man they once knew, there was a voluptuous woman dressed in his kingly attire. Desperate for an answer, Enkidu took to the nearest expert available.

"So you think Gilgamesh might have had his Spirit Origin altered during summoning? Sounds unusual, but I cannot rule out the possibility. I'll ask Da Vinci to look it over, but in the meantime, I request an audience with the King."

 

Meanwhile, in another part of Chaldea, all the men and women previously attending to holiday business had dropped everything, paralyzed by the strange sight passing them by. Plump and fair, with striking red eyes and Sumerian garments that left little to the imagination, the King of Heroes, summoned in Caster form, had gained immediate infamy.

"Milady, you should cover up. It's cold outside!"

"Madam, perhaps this cloak can protect you from indecent, wandering eyes."

"Fer gods' sake, put something on!"

By the time Enkidu and Paracelsus caught up to her, she had been covered in layers upon layers of cloaks, capes, and coats from every gentleman within proximity.

After redressing her into a simple black bra, Gilgamesh was given an explanation of the situation. "I see. So you believe me to be some sort of corrupted summon?" Her full lips cracked into a smile, and she let out a boastful laugh. "My, how amusing! But alas, this beautiful and bountiful form before you is no mere error—I am exactly as I appeared in my prime as a ruler! Contrary to my title as King of Heroes, I have always been a woman from birth." Dropping her haughty facade, she turned to Enkidu and said with a tinge of remorse, "I'm sorry, but I am not the Gilgamesh you once knew. Perhaps your old friend is still out there, just waiting to be summoned, but you'll have to put up with me until then."

"I understand. Although, since you're here, perhaps we can still be friends. I know a place where—"

"Enkidu, that's enough!" Though she tried to hide it, Gil was on the verge of tears. "What's done is done. Even if our experiences are similar, we come from separate universes. For all we know, I may as well be the complete opposite of your King, and you the opposite of my lov—my friend. The sooner we come to terms with that, the better." Averting her gaze, she continued. "I still need to gather my thoughts on the matter, but if you can find me a place to rest…"

Without hesitation, Enkidu replied softly. "Yes, of course, my K—I mean, your majesty."  _Man or woman, you're still my King… and my friend._

 

Over the next few days, Gilgamesh quickly grew in power. Supported by both her natural charisma and the resources gleefully given to her by her new subordinates, she caught up to the rest of the Chaldea crew and became their queen bee. This rise in social status had not gone unnoticed by Erik.

"Loathsome wench, prancing about the stage like some wannabe prima donna! Should we ever cross paths, I'm going to wrap my hands around her pretty little neck and…!" Triggered by her rage, her features started to undergo a horrific transformation. Sharp talons tore through her gloves, revealing grotesque, fleshy hands with yellow bones exposed, and her pristine face would have bore a similar fate had it not been interrupted.

"Erik, stop!" She ceased at the sound of the familiar voice, and turned around. "The King of Heroes may have her own natural charm, but she means nothing compared to you. To me, you're the most beautiful woman in the world."

She paused, staring him down with murderous eyes. Then, gradually, her face started turning back to normal, claws sheathed as she crossed her arms in contempt. "If that's the case, then why did you offer your cape to her the other day?"

"It's a simple act of courtesy, I assure you! Though my eye for beauty may wander, my heart is locked on to you and you alone. I'm a man of many flaws, but infidelity is not one of those."

Hearing the sound of his voice speaking so poetically, her mien softened, though a harsh sliver of skepticism remained. _Words spoken with such sincerity and grace must be true… No, I must not fall for any possible deception!_ "If your heart is as sweet and warm as your voice, I expect nothing but perfection from your gift to me."

"Knowing your boundless passion, I know your creation will be a masterpiece that stands above all others."

 

Moved by his words, she got ready to work. In daytime, with the kitchen packed with busy bakers praying the love packed in their delicacies would be reciprocated, she had not been able to use it as freely. But in the dark of the night, with far fewer eyes wandering about, she was able to pursue her craft with no restraints. As she entered the kitchen, she was met with an unexpected sight. Clad in an apron over a plump, feminine form, Gilgamesh was pondering over a cookbook under a dim light. Under typical circumstances, she would have come up with some manner of warding her off, but both were caught off guard and unable to do anything drastic.

"Gilgamesh, what are you doing?"

"First off, it's King Gilgamesh, thank you. Second… You know what tomorrow is, I assume?" Erik nodded. "I'm hoping to make some chocolates for… an acquaintance. Nothing special, just a token of my appreciation. Normally I would just pull out something from my collection or buy it, but they aren't that type of person. Besides, I doubt they are used to someone else sharing their old friend's name and features." Her eyes shifted from the book to Erik. "You don't happen to know how to bake chocolates, do you?"

With hesitance, she replied, "I've little experience with baking on my own, but I have assisted some others recently."

"I see, so an amateur artisan," Gil muttered with a tinge of disappointment. "I would prefer to commission someone more skilled, but it appears I have no other choice. You work with me on this, and I will pay you back threefold. Deal?"

Erik pondered over the offer. She had no immediate need for money, but being owed a favor from a Heroic Spirit of such prestige was too good to pass up. Looking down at the open pages from the cookbook, she could not help but sneer at the sheer simplicity of the chocolates the example photos displayed. "I may not be a baker, but an artist I still am. Give me whatever I need, and let me handle the rest."

All through the night, the King of Heroes and the Phantom of the Opera slaved away over the ovens, molding, baking, sculpting, bringing their cacao creations to life. By dawn, they left the kitchen—and themselves—a grand mess. Before parting ways, Gil summoned a gold portal, into which she slipped her hand and pulled out a familiar blue cape. "Are you sure this is all you want? I can give you one more suitable for your husba—"

"This is perfect enough, thank you." She wrapped the boxed chocolate in the cape and cradled it. "I certainly hope your acquaintance appreciates your gift."

Staring down at the bouquet of sweet flowers, Gil's lips parted into a smile. "I know they will."

 

Erik rushed over to the living quarters in which she and Fionn usually resided, only to find it empty. Upon the bed was a note, its simplistic penmanship belying an artistic voice. " _Where upon the hill my first home resides, where my heart still lies, that is where I'll be._ " Whilst reading the note, the answer rang in her head: Almhuin, Fionn's house on the hill of Allen. Looking back at the bed, she noticed another item. A neat, finely tailored bundle of snow white. Even without unwrapping it, an image of the garment formed in her mind, and her red eyes started to glimmer.

Somewhere in Ireland, upon the hill of Allen, stood the ancient home of Almhuin. The house—or fort, rather—was showing wear from centuries of being untended, yet somehow, as if by magic, it had remained hidden from mundane eyes, a piece of mythological history not meant to be found. Donned in a simple yet elegant gown, with bell sleeves, gold trimmings, and a low cut which served to accentuate the size of her massive bosom, Erik trekked up the path towards the house. Though not completely unaccustomed to skirts, she had never done anything this strenuous whilst wearing one; she found herself nearly tripping over her dress more often the further up she went. By the time she reached her destination, she was out of breath, but any discomfort she would have had was ignored as her focus was set on the man standing before her.

"So you've found my letter," he said, a tinge of modesty in his typically bold voice. "Writing is not something I'm used to, but I was unsure how else to convince you. I could have told Diarmuid, but with his Love Spot, I feared…" Noticing the blue cloth in her arm, he gasped. "My dear, you needn't go to such lengths…! But I must thank you for saving me the effort. That King of Heroes is a unique sort of beauty, but gods be damned if she couldn't be a bit more approachable."

"Her cold demeanor belies a warm heart," she replied. "Then again, you've always had a way with women."

Fionn blushed in embarrassment. "Erik, don't even tease about it." He unwrapped the bundle, dropping his cape when he saw the present hidden underneath. Inside the box was a large chocolate heart with a trim of red candy roses and dark chocolate streaks in the form of Celtic patterns. His heart stopped, as his blue eyes were absorbed by the beauty of his gift. "This is…" He shook his head and refocused. "Come inside. We can talk more there."

Inside, they settled down in the old dining table, where they split the chocolate among them, feeding it to each other piece by piece. (Erik, the one with a nigh-unstoppable sweet tooth, ate the majority of it.) Once every last ounce had been consumed, Fionn continued, unveiling his own present in the form of a small box. "Do you remember our first date, when we danced under the moonlight? What you've said to me that night? I still haven't forgotten. As a matter of fact, since then, I've been wanting to share this with you." He opened the box, revealing two rings, each engraved with the phrase "One Love, One Lifetime". "Erik, will you marry me?"

 

On that momentous occasion, a union of love had formed between the most unlikely pair of Heroic Spirits. A bright, knightly hero of the land, and a dark, murderous phantom of the stage. Different as day and night, and yet strangely similar in their romantic, artistic visions. What would stem from such a magical marriage? That's for fate to decide.


End file.
